The first were written on napkins from a cafe I know they frequent often. I always like to imagine them rushing out to whosever car they took that day to pen urgent explanations that started with promises of their continued love and went on to detail Aubrey’s threats and warn me about the pictures he had.
Agent Shaw was stone-faced when she delivered the letters to me, and she bore the same expression when I sent her back with two notes of my own thanking them for explaining and agreeing with their suggestion that we take a large step back from each other to allow Aubrey to believe he won.
In a lot of ways, it feels like he has. The only thing he didn’t succeed at was making me live in a false reality where my men chose anything over me. But knowing that hasn’t actually changed anything. I’m still tied to him because I don’t know what he’ll do to us if I leave. I’m still living every day without them. I’m still in this fucked up place where it feels like my life is happeningtome, and I’m angry as hell about it.
That anger manifests itself into nails digging into the skin of Beck’s neck.
“Ouch,” he says, wincing.
My fingers relax immediately. “I’m sorry.”
Explaining where my mind is and why is unnecessary. The anger building inside of me has been simmering for months now, and it has been discussed ad nauseam. Going into it right now would be a massive waste of the few minutes we have left. I lean in, resting my forehead against his.
“How was the trip?”
“Mentally exhausting, as usual. He insisted on running with us every morning. Did you know it takes him twelve minutes to run a mile?”
I snort, the pettiest part of me lighting up at the thought of Aubrey slugging along the trails around Camp David trying to keep up with Beck’s long strides. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. He’s never been a fan of cardio.”
“You should have seen how red his face was by the end of each run. We’d laugh about it for the rest of the day,” he recounts, lips quirking in fleeting amusement.
I move my hands around to cup his dear face, tracing my finger tips over the remnants of the foreign expression. “I miss your smile.”
There’s a weight to the words I didn’t intend to place there. One that transcends the obvious pain of our lack of proximity and taps into the dark, shameful wall of guilt wrapped around his heart because of what he had to do to save me and Cal. I know from the brief moments I’ve shared with the man who captured both of our hearts that Beck is struggling with being responsible for the death of Agent Charlie Monroe.
It doesn’t matter that she betrayed her badge and oath. That she led him and Cal to what would have been certain death. It doesn’t matter that every report he wrote and statement he gave after the fact stated it was him or her. All that matters is she’s gone, and he’s responsible.
And that harsh truth has stolen his light.
Which isn’t to say the man was ever a ray of sunshine. Because he wasn’t. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He was carrying ghosts with him before. His wife. His son. But they were benevolent presences. The love he still holds for them a soft, aching glow that surrounds him, turning him into this mesmerizing and sometimes untouchable entity. They were there. They still are, but they weren’t haunting him.
Charlie is, though.
She’s a shadow over his features. A rain cloud above his head, stealing the small bits of sun we share in these stolen moments.
I just wish I fully understood why. I mean, of course I can’t imagine it’s easy being responsible for the end of someone’s life, but I know for a fact she isn’t the first person Beck has killed. And even if that was the case, his actions were justified because she intended to kill him. That reasoning would be enough to comfort me, but it’s not enough for Beck. The most frustrating part of all of this is I can’t ask him to explain it because I can’t risk him looking at me the way Aubrey used to when I would ask for clarification on something that felt so obvious to him and every other neurotypical person around.
Beck sighs, and the heat of his breath skates over my lips. I lean in closer, chasing the warmth, needing the pressure of his mouth more than whatever response he was going to give. He caves easily, and I open for him the second his tongue emerges from his mouth. My fingers are in his skin again, but he doesn’t wince this time. He groans, and I drink the sound down in greedy gulps, feeding him my own moans when he rocks up into me making me feel the erection I can’t take advantage of.
That realization hits us both at the same time, and we snap out of the high of our collective madness, crash landing on Earth with desperate gasps that leave us with no choice but to let go of each other lest we risk blowing our cover. Beck lowers me to the ground slowly, and I back away from him, needing the distance.
“I saw your segment on Good Morning America,” he says, reaching into his pants to adjust himself. “You were beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, breath growing ragged as he stretches out a hand to cup my cheek. He rubs at the corner of my mouth with the pad of his thumb, fixing what I can only guess is smudged lipstick.
“Not as beautiful as you are now, though,” he whispers, dark eyes burning a hole into my very soul. “Doesn’t matter what kind of lighting they have, how they do your makeup or what brand they put you in. Nothing compares to seeing you live and in color, gorgeous.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I’m hit with the sudden urge to kiss him again. I push it down. There’s not enough time. There’s never enough time. Despite the lovely compliment, I frown.
“Yeah, well, if I had my way, that’s the only way anyone would ever see me. I think I could live the rest of my life without another camera pointed in my face.”
He tilts his head to the side, examining me. “Developing a bit of camera fatigue?”
“Is that even a thing?”
“You’re the First Lady of the United States. It’s a thing if you say it is.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? Using my platform to lend meaning and credence to a feeling I only have because of it?”
